January 2001

ISSN 1480-6401

INTRODUCTION
Doug Tanoury
CONTENTS
Janet I. Buck
Lonely Memos
Likenesses
The Woman Who Stuck Around
Botticelli Angel Dust
The Sonnet Shakespeare Never Wrote
Doug Tanoury
The Jade Vagina
With Oranges
The Wedding Poem
Greek Echo
Red Beans on Rice
Gigi Marino
"The Scullion Gone Wild"
The Hush of My Bones
The Meanness of the World
Hotel Dancer-for Hire
I Want the Heat
Maria Jacketti
from Gabriela Mistral: A Reader
The Wild Strawberry
The Air
from Ceremonial Songs by Pablo Neruda
From "Cataclysm"
From "The Bull"
From "Ocean Lady"
Moshe Benarroch
Here
MY HOMETOWN
A peaceful shabbat, rest in peace
The shore of the other
(Thoughts) On Being the judge of a poetry prize
Karen Alkalay-Gut
IN THE COUNTRY
The Cloak of Thorns
SABRINA
Because my body
Put me
PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST
Klaus J. Gerken
FROLICKING IN MUD
RAPE
SHOT OF LOVE
POST SCRIPTUM
Karen Ackalay-Gut
Cuplet commenting on one of Klaus Gerken's Poems

All the poets in this issue are participants of the Athens Avenue
poetry discussion group. Doug Tanoury, the founder and moderator
of this group provides the following introduction:
"In 1995 I began writing poetry in large listserv e-mail distribution
lists. It was very impersonal, many poets used pseudonyms, there was
a number of transients and lurkers, the list turnover was rapid,
quality of verse, comments and critiques was highly inconsistent.
I wanted a more meaningful environment, more work, more connection,
more quality. I wrote to five poets who wrote with me on one of the
poetry list servers. I told them what I didn't like and asked them to
come and write with me in a new environment. Athens was formed in 1996.
In addition to state-side poets, Athens Avenue always had a number of
international poets, a result of the unique nature of the Internet.
It created a supportive and friendly environment without many rules,
formalities or administrative overhead. Poets always worked
based not on any formal agreements or contracts, but just on the basis
of a handshake. I think I like to work in that fashion; because it is
a test of honor and I relish the inherent risk involved. In all honesty
there have been times when I have been disappointed, but more often I
was not.
I always invited poets whose worked impressed me. I never cared about
their biography, about who they were or what they did. This was a
professional association of poets serious about their craft. There
isn't much chitchat and most of our interaction and relationship is
based on our work. This I think is a characteristic of a professional
circle. There also seems to be an high level of respect between all
the poets who write together, and this is also a characteristic of
professionals working together.
I am touched by the magic of poetry every day, just as I was the very
beginning. Athens Avenue has always been home to exceptional poets
and remarkable verse, and most of all I am an awe struck witness to
some of the best verse I have ever read."
Doug Tanoury
01-13-01

Janet I. Buck
Lonely Memos
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fitness center, nursing home,
side by side like Siamese twins
in worry's womb.
The quiet club of aging's bones.
I signed my name, turned my head,
prepared to lift a room of weights,
swim my laps in the green glass lake
of an empty pool.
Solitude, a peaceful hum
because I had a home
and husband waiting there.
Two EMTs pushing a gurney
out wide and waxen parted lips
of automatic doors and smiles.
On it sat a waving man;
they fanned his moot delirium.
"There she is!" he squawked
like roosters near insipid blade:
"My little girl! I knew she'd come!"
This stranger leaning on my flesh
as heartily as trees drink water
through their roots.
I walked beside the rolling bed
and out into the falling rain.
Freeze was just a pressure sore
brewing near an open wound.
His fingers in my sweaty palm--
steam from kettles on a stove.
Knuckles like a wrinkled carrot
looking for its rabbit's foot.
My hand was just a memo pad
for scribbling his loneliness.
On the edge of the cliff of time
seemed a good place
to brew a small pot of lies.
Janet I. Buck
Likenesses
~~~~~~~~~~
It is the season of onyx heart
and glitter's panther
and party fuzz. Alcohol
looks prettier this time of year.
I space how lethal sauce can be.
Leaving flesh like wrinkled fruit
surrounded by that nausea
in piles of rancid sauerkraut.
Once upon a stupid time,
it picked at icebergs,
loosened grips of sinking ships.
Messing up my curly hair enough to
fool snakish tresses with its sweat.
Perhaps my "bottom" lingering
just wasn't far enough to fall.
I didn't have to choose between
the ethered state and milk or bread,
or pillows for a throbbing temple,
bursting seams with boiled lies.
I watch you roll your
worldly goods down sidewalks
of these city streets.
Everything you own
is tied to a dolly with
stretching ropes that could
have been my broken arms.
I look around and see myself,
wires poking through a mattress
made of flimsy winter clouds.
If not for money's cold blank verse,
we could have been
the same damned poem.
Torn diplomas of my vows
should tell me just how close I was.
But pain in time--
alchemizes, Frenchifizes--
wool to cashmere memory.
Janet I. Buck
The Woman Who Stuck Around
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's Christmas Eve;
you are driving the long length
of a state pummeled by
rain, darkness, and fear.
To visit your mother,
who's given up her reins on life.
When you pass remainders
of riven skunks on dangerous curves,
your headlights will reflect her waste.
Your husband's mom
is dying in the hospital.
You've bathed and dressed
her swelling tumors,
combed her hair as wealthy
women brush a mink.
Bonded in the round dance
of shared grief, cradled her bones
like piles of nails falling
through a wet brown bag.
Expecting nothing in return,
you will be known as
the woman who stuck around.
The woman who lived the boil
and nursed the burn,
who saddled a horse
and rode the wind,
clich=E9s of angels,
proving that undaunted love
means walking barefoot
through thick mud.
Someday in a far off grave,
the toe tag on your body's frame
will say: "this woman stuck around,"
shoveled banks of sorrow's snow,
even when the tulips left,
courting every hairpin turn,
gravel in her open eyes.
Janet I. Buck
***For Linda Mc Donough
Botticelli Angel Dust
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We are hundreds of miles apart.
Your deafness though so natural
at nearly ninety makes a phone call
seem a strain that leaves you
staring at tiny seeds
in dirty metal colanders.
I want to drag you north,
pamper piles of driftwood bones,
their rusty razors looking
at an end in sight
I feel but cannot talk about.
I may not have another chance;
apathy is not a dance
that time will let us finish up.
I wanna be that bucket
in a sanguine well,
bringing water to the house,
drowning you in much more love
than postage stamps can buy or send.
Your skin, by now,
a pile of aging sauerkraut.
I wanna be a plate of good,
but here I study cracks and chips,
poisoning the possible.
I see you in the river's mirror,
table set for widowhood,
dining on old memories.
Wonder if you'd hop a plane,
spend some final sun with us.
A second Christmas spent alone
cattle stomps a wounded heart.
I don't deserve the name
you gave me as a child:
your "Botticelli Angel" dust.
I wish I could be pushier.
As pushy as mortality.
Janet I. Buck
The Sonnet Shakespeare Never Wrote
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There is a point
where push and shove
brings lions out.
Depression's velvet
motorcade left oil leaks
I licked as if
their puddles
came from inside me.
Threats of sorrow,
suicide like candy canes
you'd hang from
every living tree.
I wear no guilt
for leaping into laps
of cherish,
letting flowers go to seed,
come back in bursts
beyond blank verse
and sectioned suns.
Loving you was typing drunk,
opening a can of tuna
with a toothpick.
The only key my fingers
trusted was escape.
I know this now
because I sleep
in the mingled hum
of a sonnet Shakespeare
might have sold
in courts of royals,
traded for large pots
of gold and jewels
beyond fathoming.
My husband tucks me
in at night as if
he's tissuing a gift.
Doug Tanoury
The Jade Vagina
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I watched the sunrise today
Reflected in the many panes of glass skyscrapers
That rise majestic and monolithic like tree covered mountains
That mark the far side of the harbor and form
The crowded skyline that is Hong Kong
And in the mirrored mosaic of articulated glass
White clouds slowly drift across blue sky
And dirty white high-rises stand shoulder to shoulder
Back to back and side to side their images mingled
distorted and smudged like an impressionist landscape
In the background the green waters of the harbor open
Like a jade vagina before the phallic shapes of glass
Stone and steel that rise wide and erect to penetrate
The morning and hide the green hills and the squalor
Of the run down apartment buildings in mirrored gray
Doug Tanoury
With Oranges
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I thought today of her awakening
Her movements a shadow
In the predawn darkness
A phantom floating
No more than a chimera of shape
A nude that Picasso might sketch
No more than a few sloping lines that curve
Toward soft inclines and rise gently
Toward feathered intersections
And fall toward full divergence
Backlit in silhouette from the bedroom window
Her breasts and buttocks
The simple elegance of lines in
Erotic waves and fluid motion
And as she moves near
I smell the citrus of orange slices
That is the fragrance and scent
That forms a perfumed wake as she passes
And the "sh" and "ch" sounds of her dressing
Are a bird's wings flapping
A slight rustling of fabric
A finch in the shrub
I am the slave of her motion
The serf of her smells
The prisoner of her naked beauty
Who wakes each morning in bondage
To the changing shape of curves
To the texture of delicate sound
And a still life with oranges
Doug Tanoury
The Wedding Poem
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(For Terra)
Time upon a once I do now recall
In memory rich with childhood wonder
The fairy tales read at bedtime
And prayers said at her bedside
Now I lay me down to rest
I hope your dreams are just the best
Heaven and hell are chambers of the heart
For when I am dead I will spend eternity
Strolling through summer afternoons
A little hand in mine as we walk
And talk quite casually of birds and trees
And bumblebees burrowing deep in blossoms
Awakening to absence that is her finding
The fullness of a wonderful womanhood
That is her finding now the meaning of mature love
And living her days in a happy place of her own making
That is crafted by her own choices and
Sustained by her own hands
I sing now no more in half whispers
My tenor rising just above the organ notes
The Kyrie and Agnus Dei
The Sanctus and Benedictus
My prayers of happiness are sung
For Latin is the language of heartfelt love
Walk once more with me down the nave
Toward the altar of this country church
Awash in the color of stained-glass light
My chest that rises and falls with each breath
Is a warehouse of fervent worship
As I walk with her toward her life
Doug Tanoury
Greek Echo
~~~~~~~~~~
(A Hollywood Park Poem)
I see her naked
With my eyes closed
Each breast a half peach
And the cheeks of her ass
Symmetrical hemispheres
A sliced melon
I can touch her
Deeply in my dreams
Her flesh feels firm
Yet soft like ripe mango
And the taste of kiwi
Lingers on my tongue
I can see the smell
Of her moving like
A shadow around me
A flicker of motion
A flash of movement
That is Venus waking
Doug Tanoury
Red Beans on Rice
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Freckles sprinkled lightly
Over the whiteness
Of pale and perfect skin
Like spice spilled
Across a tablecloth
I imagine them seasoning
And added flavor
To the milk and cream
Of arm and leg
Hair like new copper
Wavy and full that falls across
The virginity of bare shoulders
And the snow covered hills
That is her naked ass
A Pre-Raphaelite vision
A shivering Ophelia
Whose color calls to mind
Red beans on rice
Gigi Marino
"The Scullion Gone Wild"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
--William Butler Yeats
I bring to this kitchen good knives,
sharpened by whet and stone
tools of old, toothless men in a barrow
true things, guaranteed
to slice marrow and bone.
I was born to cut, not to breed,
and the master knows me as his own,
a rebellious wench fueled
with fire and a naughty riot
beneath my skirt, like kindling
left in the rain, slow to start
but never again, true fire, blue flame,
knives I call my own that return my name.
Gigi Marino
The Hush of My Bones
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have been here before
on the back deck in spring,
watched the same bulbs
make good on their promise,
seen the Daylight-Saving sun
slice perfect shadows in the wood,
listened to the neighborhood chimes
compete with one another.
But something has changed this year:
the hush of my bones grown louder,
the body’s mad insistence on careful
tending of muscle and ligaments,
as if it were a rude challenger
to its own precarious desires,
as if the body were the only reminder
of my days of quiet anger,
of all that is not resolved,
the soft embrace of damage, here, in the body.
Gigi Marino
The Meanness of the World
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My grandmother ached for the meanness
of the world, she’d tell me again and again
the story of a girl kidnapped and ransomed.
Her heartbroken father paid the price asked,
but nothing, really, could save his daughter
from coming home in pieces in a blood-soaked sack.
"All chopped up," she'd say, a bony finger pointed,
admonishing me of the dangers of dark nights
and kidnappers with evil intent and sharp knives.
I thought of this girl so often I imagined her alive,
blond and laughing in a sailor suit the day she died
and her grief-filled father fretting near the phone,
a policeman or two in the room, maybe a priest,
and somewhere in the background, her mother,
but in Grandma's stories, the mother stood silent,
and so, I never thought about her suffering,
but always the worst pain a father could feel.
This knowledge became my secret sorrow,
and all my life, I tried to protect my own father
whose loves were greedy like that of a young boy
and not at all like a grown man—least of all, father.
Now, so many years later, I have to wonder,
what had my grandmother known about her son,
could she have ever admitted the things he'd done,
the certain sins of a man's hands and a stunted heart?
I’d like to believe she was innocent of knowing
the real dangers in my own house,
the sad evil that whimpered something
like love and made me love it back.
Gigi Marino
Hotel Dancer-for Hire
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Billy Wilder, named by a mother
in love with the Wild West,
but who died in Auschwitz,
was weaned by a father who had
nothing to lose in gaming rooms,
learned young to smell the succinct
meanness of money, sex, and skin:
“many things about human nature,
but none of them favorable....- soon
went on to work as a dancer-for-hire
for older women in Viennese hotels
under crystal lights and perfume
dark as the Austrian nights, where he
buried his head into powdered chests
of women with nothing to lose,
a post-War wanton passion fueled
by the nameless desire of a man-boy
with slim hips and everything to say
but who stayed silent on the dance floor,
thinking, double indemnity will save me
as he buried his head into chests of women
who never once thought of the Wild West.
Gigi Marino
I Want the Heat
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I want the heat,
the way it seeps
under mosquito netting
when the night is alive
with geckos and disease.
I want the threat
of malaria, delirium,
nights of sweat
so rich that it
erases all desire.
I want no man
to fear my small words.
I want the night
burning bright,
no tiger, but a cigarette.
I want my skin
soft as dew, soft as sin--
again, again....
I want to clothe
my breasts for modesty.
I want seduction unseen,
in my India, in the villages
where I am less than nothing
but more than everything
where desire diminishes
into the color of my skin.
I want the heat,
I want to forget all that is me.
I want the night, I want
to sweat, I want to forget.
Maria Jacketti
from Gabriela Mistral: A Reader
The Wild Strawberry
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wild strawberry, set apart
in a leafy tent,
gives off fragrance before she is picked.
Before she is seen, she blushes...
Untouched by birds,
it is heaven's dew
that moistens the wild strawberry.
Do not bruise the earth;
do not squeeze the sweet one.
For her love, lower yourself,
inhale her, give her your mouth.
The Air
~~~~~~~
The thing that passes and remains,
it is the air -- the air.
And without a mouth that you can see,
it takes you and kisses you, Father Lover.
Oh! We break it apart without breaking it;
wounded, it flies off without complaint.
And it seems that the Air
transports all and leaves all behind, willingly.
Maria Jacketti
from Ceremonial Songs by Pablo Neruda
From "Cataclysm"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My love, my love, close my eyes, protect them
not only from the volcanic brilliance, not only from
the darkness of terror, I don't want to have eyes.
I don't want that knowledge yet -- to experience, to exist.
Close my eyes, protect them from all the tears,
protect them from my weeping and yours, from the perpetual
river of laments, caressing and piercing,
between night and lava -- like sulphur's kiss --
the last vestment from a poor homeland, resting on stone,
facing the sea's insistent invitation,
beneath the cordillera's unmerciful bearing.
From "The Bull"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
III
They dressed a pale worker
in blue fire, in amber ashes,
in silvery tongues, in clouds and vermillion,
in emerald eyes, in sapphire tails,
and the pale man advanced against the fury,
the poor man, so richly dressed,
advanced for the killing.
He came adorned in lightning -- to die.
From "Ocean Lady"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
IX
Such feathers! Bring with you the bird
joining the secret depths and heaven,
come wrapped in your newborn nakedness of hummingbirds,
until feather by feather, emeralds fly.
All poems translated by Maria Jacketti
Moshe Benarroch
Here
~~~~
in these streets
the angel who walked before me
helped me walk
prevented me from falling
saved me
when I had a car accident
in the head
near the synagogue
in the head
of the year
here
in these streets
so empty from me
I cried for the first time
I smiled for the first time
and from here I traveled everywhere
now I came back
seeking understanding
from the houses, the streets, the sidewalks, the people.
Moshe Benarroch
MY HOMETOWN
~~~~~~~~~~~
There are days I only think of it.
As if there was nothing in the world
but longing.
Other days life and its banalities cover
everything
and I walk feeling that no one
will ever understand
my language.
Some days I don't understand
my language.
As if I was walking without legs
and the distance between me and the earth
just grows and grows
still I don't fly
it is an imagined
walking
an imagined world
instead of
a solid land.
Moshe Benarroch
A peaceful shabbat, rest in peace
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
First there was the neighbor who didn't stop looking at my wife's breasts
then it was my mother who decided I should do a Ph.D. in maths
because she saw this poet who was also a mathematician
she wants a son with a Ph.D. she would trade me for the diploma
then my wife's nephew wanted me to burn for him a cd
while his wife started speaking about religious people
and how she couldn't stand the fact that women have no place in synagogues
so I just asked her if she would go the synagogue if there was more room
she said no then my sister told everybody how she convinced one
ultra orthodox woman to stop having children after she had ten
and the doctors asked her to stop, even the rabbi, and yes I forgot
my son also said that he hated me "I hate this person!" his words
no wonder I went to sleep at ten o'clock and woke up with an angina
at 2 A.M. and what did I do? The shabbatt dishes were there waiting for me.
Sunday came I went to the post office and there was a check waiting for me,
I will make it to the next shabbatt, there will be more food.
Moshe Benarroch
The shore of the other
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By the border of the sea
between water and sand
my life is born
between salt and water
my eyes turn blue
between shore and sand
my skin glitters
I am the one coming
from the other side of the sea
the other shore
the one which people say it doesn't exist
at the end of the sea
I am the sun that awakens
the sun that sets
I am
the other.
Moshe Benarroch
(Thoughts) On Being the judge of a poetry prize
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1.
I am the bad guy this time, the one who won't give the prize
to the real poet, I will skip it, not see his talent or be blinded by it, then
most prize winners never become great poets, neither those who don't win
but this time someone will say, he is not even a good poet, how can he see my talent,
just as I did, just as I did.
2.
Twenty two manuscripts in front of me, and my goodness, they all write better than I do,
at least in Spanish, how am I going to make it, they have a better language, a better
knowledge of the syntax, the literary traditions, but, the hell,
where is life, where love in the lines, where anger, where light, where life.
It's like every poem is written these days at night with a candle
where no light comes in, every poem written in deep obscurirty
of the soul.
3.
Man, why are you doing this, the trip to Spain? respect?
isn't it dangerous, didn't you say so, and why you who
never won a poetry prize ever, why will you judge,
now, you can see why you never won, you never did the tricks
of writing well, presentable, catering for judges, trying to convince them,
you spit on the prizes and contests, and expected to win.
But, didn't you say a thousand times that a poet shouldn't deal
with literary establishments, work in publishing houses, better a slaughterhouse,
better sell bullets than this, and here you are reading poetry for a living, and
not even such a good one, go sell your cd's instead of that, man.
4.
Why do we come to this life,
to change it or to accept it?
Karen Alkalay-Gut
IN THE COUNTRY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We don't know where the hell we are
when we get in the cab at the restaurant
to return to the empty dorms at this rural school.
Everything is dark, smelling richly of country
and there are 4 of us, Shamra from Canada,
and Alex from Wales and Luis from Teneriff.
They sit in the back together and I get in the front
with the old driver and his girlfriend, who looks
young, my age, maybe fifty, except for the teeth.
It's hard to tell. We know the ride is pretty straight,
nothing too curvy so it can't matter much
that we can't see where the hell we’re going
and the happy couple are content
to tell us tales of the Maine woods.
Hell, I picked up a fare yesterday
in the middle of nowhere--he waren't
from around here, all dressed up in a suit and tie,
like you people. And I took him to town,
told him not to get too drunk since
he seemed so tired, and then in the morning
the police call me and they say
he’d killed his girlfriend then himself
last night and I was the last man
to see him alive. That'll be
four dollars even, please.
Anywhere else I'd suspect
he was conning me
but for Maine it seemed
like a fair price.
Karen Alkalay-Gut
The Cloak of Thorns
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
for Martha
I will keep you
clear of me
I will keep you clear
with all the prickles and thorns
I have picked up
on the road
of my life
the long hard way
I learned
to drive off
Mother
and soul
far
from my heart
I just have to break it in
Karen Alkalay-Gut
SABRINA
~~~~~~~
Once or twice she has appeared in some dream
but last night she seems to have had more
of the starring role in some drama that takes place
somewhere in some mythic sophisticated Arab city.
She appears slim and olive-skinned, her heavy hair
tamed into a bun on her nape, her long gold lame
just short enough to skim the dirt on the street,
and full enough to allow her complete freedom
of movement. She is a spy but I do not care
for whom she works, and sometimes she consents
to play a whore for money - easily sucking secrets
from him for the price of a trick on the street,
while earning great sums with the information
she lazily turns in to the anonymous authorities.
She is a source of great admiration for me in this dream,
the way she envelops her man with gold lame
and nothing underneath, while retaining that look
of aristocratic dignity and selected indifference.
I tell my friends I think of her as a colleague, a role Model.
Karen Alkalay-Gut
Because my body
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Because my body
always changes
like a jellyfish
or the mind
of a dangerous
psychopath
I weigh the range
of the items
in my closet
then determine
what shape
today
it wants me
to take
Karen Alkalay-Gut
Put me
To music
Tease out
My strange
Rhythm
The mood
Within
Put me
To music
Karen Alkalay-Gut
PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
leaning on her hand
wistfully as if
her hand is
her only source
of strength
and her head
too massive
to stand
alone.
Six
out of ten
of the winning poets
this year
support their heads.
None appear
as in the past
with an animal
to show how close
they are to ferral truth.
Most appear to have
had their portraits done
professionally
to convey
their awareness
of presentation.
Only one
seems to have been snapped
by an awkward friend
in a moment
of revelation.
Klaus J. Gerken
FROLICKING IN MUD
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My ribs ache
From lungs conjested with a laugher
That is neither human
Nor ideal
(God would never be in this predicament--
That is--
Would our god be real)
It is not from any choosing
Nor from any accident
It is just that I'm consumed in laughter
Beneith the great blackness beyond
The little universe we know
It's mud I say
This precise knowledge we call science
All mud
Slippin' and a slidin'
Mud we are so serious about
Take a lesson from the kids
You slide in mud
No matter how filthy
You slide in mud
Until you come to rest
And eveyone laughs with you
At you
And just when you thought
It was safe to get up
Someone slides on top of you
And both make this great big splash
A revelation
A glint in someone's eye
That's not our own...
19 Aug 2000
Klaus J. Gerken
RAPE
~~~~
She placed her diamond ring on the counter
I don't need it anymore she said
The pawnbroker handed her the money
Dismayed she put it in her purse
A minor disagrement--New York's just a shovel
And she lit a cigarette between her teeth
But the east Bronx crows deserted
The hollow logs they kept as pets
I am lately a dead drunk and a pound 'Felicity'
She said dancing wild and naked and somehow not
beneith her dignity--and she cried because the moon
Was out of kilter and reflected wild beneith her skin
But several moments later a white ambulance schreeked in
And the warm soft memory became a frightened miscreant....
31 Oct 2000
Klaus J. Gerken
SHOT OF LOVE
~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's a beautiful day
A woman fell in the street
Passers-by did not see
Too busy to care
Not my problem
I gotta get home
Someone else will call the cops
Found three days later
Frozen to death
The media screamed
How could this be possible
In clear view of all
No one saw her fall
No one heard her screams
A busy bus stop
Christmas rush
Brother love thy neighbour
It's a beautiful day
Kids trash a church
And make off with Christmas presents
For the poor
A man is found drowned
In a shopping mall pool
No one saw him drown
Some just called him fool
And a girl shoots up in my apartment
And tried to kill me with a knife
I am unwounded
The cop says "You'll survive"
Towmorrow is Christmas eve
Brother love thy neighbour
And help me with the ride
It's a beautful day
Minus 21 Celcius
A girl in a mini-skirt shivers at the bus stop
Curses me when I walk by
The night is crisp and clean and lonely
You can hear it in the stars
I want someone to hold me
I need the strength of crucial arms
And the slow decay of humans
Is a stink within the air
I am no pessimist but must admit
Hope is peeling thin
And the skink of rotting onions
Makes everyone cry a little sin
Oh brother love thy neighbour
Just don't knock on any door
It's a beautiful day
I was a promise that was wasted
I was a clock of no appeal
I was a rock within the mountain
Crushed by waves and waves of sway
And you were not there with me
When I needed you the most
I was angry I was human
You were not the holy ghost
And yet you were my saviour
Mary Magdalaine
I loved you for your honesty
Hated the needles and the blood
And I said I loved you
Yet I let you go
You ashed are you lonely
Yes I cringed
I won't come here again you said
I kissed you with a passion
And from the street your misdemeanour
Made me shiver as I drowned
Love thy neighbour the good god says
Yet the poison steals the moment
And the moment steals the rent
And no one prays at Christmas
Just wakes up wanting one more dime
To buy a shot of love.
23 - 26 Dec 00

Karen Ackalay-Gut
Cuplet commenting on one of Klaus Gerken's Poems
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Klaus - this is good -- the obsessive quality is very compelling --
I made a few comments in brackets and ignored the spelling.

A New Age: The Centipede Network Of
Artists, Poets, & Writers
An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310]
(C) CopyRight "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul
Lauda

Welcome to Newsgroup alt.centipede. Established
just for writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A
place for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and
learn from all. A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies.
Even a chance to be published in a magazine.
The original Centipede Network was created on May 16, 1993.
Created because there were no other networks dedicated to such
an audience, and with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon
started to grow, and become active on many world-wide Bulletin
Board Systems.
We consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a
specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking.
Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most nets
are very general and have various topics, not of interest to a
writer--which is where Centipede steps in! No more fuss. A writer
can now access, without phasing out any more conferences, since
the whole net pertains to the writer's interests. This means
that Centipede has all the active topics that any creative
user seeks. And if we don't, then one shall be created.
Feel free to drop by and take a look at newsgroup alt.centipede

Ygdrasil is committed to making literature available, and uses the
Internet as the main distribution channel. On the Net you can find all
of Ygdrasil including the magazines and collections. You can find
Ygdrasil on the Internet at:
* WEB: http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken/
* FTP: ftp://ftp.synapse.net/~kgerken/
* USENET: releases announced in rec.arts.poems, alt.zines and
alt.centipede
* EMAIL: send email to kgerken@synapse.net and tell us what version
and method you'd like. We have two versions, an uncompressed
7-bit universal ASCII and an 8-bit MS-DOS lineart-enchanced
version. These can be sent plaintext, uuencoded, or as a
MIME-attachment.

All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is
prohibited.
YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2001 by
Klaus J. Gerken.
The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's
World-Wide Web site http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken. No other
version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there.
Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged.
All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS
COMMENTS
* Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
submissions. Use Klaus' address for commentary on Ygdrasil and its
contents: kgerken@synapse.net
* Pedro Sena, Production Editor - for submissions of anything
that's not plain ASCII text (ie. archives, GIFs, wordprocessored
files, etc) in any standard DOS, Mac or Unix format, commentary on
Ygdrasil's format, distribution, usability and access:
art@accces.com
We'd love to hear from you!
Or mailed with a self addressed stamped envelope, to: